A Scandalous Proposal. Kasey Michaels
she is— No, she’d know that, wouldn’t she? She’d have to know that, for pity’s sake.”
The baron got to his feet, beginning to pace. “When you’re done debating yourself, Miss Foster, perhaps we can return to this matter of the unknown secret admirer?”
Dany put down the remainder of the lemon square, her very favorite, her appetite having disappeared, perhaps forever. “The dress shop owner believes the countess is...is increasing.” She looked up at Cooper, who was now standing stock-still. “A seamstress can’t know more than the person in question, could she?”
“You’re asking me?”
“No, probably not. You’re not as calm and collected as I would have imagined a hero would be, you know.”
“I’m not a hero, damn it!” He held up his hands. “I beg your pardon, Miss Foster. But I’m not a hero. Anything you read in that god-awful chapbook was made up out of whole cloth.”
Well, wasn’t that disappointing. “None of it? You didn’t rescue any children?”
He tipped his head to one side for a moment. “Well, that’s true. But I didn’t plan it. It...it just happened. One minute I was standing there with everyone else, and the next I was tossing down my rifle and running. It seemed like the thing to do. And what does any of that matter?”
“I imagine it matters to the children you saved from being trampled or shot, the Englishmen who were then free to defend themselves from a French slaughter. Oh, and to the veiled lady. Was there a veiled lady?”
“A holy nun. A veiled nun, yes.”
“Now you’re lying,” she said, not knowing why she felt so certain, but certain nonetheless. “You’re protecting her, whoever she is. That’s why she disappeared. You took her somewhere safe, and only then returned to the camp, hours after the battle. Even now, you protect her. She must be very important to someone.”
His green eyes flashed, his eyelids narrowed—just the way his unknown biographer had written. “I don’t like you, Miss Foster.”
“That’s understandable. I’ve rather bullied my way into your life, haven’t I? I have no shame in that, however, as my sister desperately needs a hero, unwilling hero or not,” she told him brightly. “Inconveniently for you, you’re a man of your word, because you’re still here, when a lesser man would have broken down the earl’s front door in his haste to be gone. He knows who she is, naturally.”
“What?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. We’re back to my sister and her secret admirer. He knows her because the notes he wrote were delivered here. That’s only sensible. But he also knows her because she foolishly signed her name to her notes. Probably with a flourish, and including her title. Mari can be a bit of a twit.”
“All right, I think I finally understand. Your sister wants me to discover the identity of her anonymous admirer in order to have her notes returned to her. And how am I supposed to go about that, Miss Foster? Does your sister by chance keep a list of her admirers, as a sort of starting point for me, you understand?”
“No, and it’s not that simple. I can show you the letters he wrote to her, I suppose. There may be a hint or two there I’ve overlooked. But it’s his final missive—or should I say almost final missive—that is causing all of this trouble.”
So saying, she reached into her pocket and drew out a folded note, handing it over to him.
He looked at it, almost as if he didn’t want to touch it, and then suddenly all but grabbed it from her. Opening it, he read aloud.
“Five hundred pounds or the next person to read your love notes will be your husband, just before the collection is published in a pamphlet entitled Confessions of a Society Matron Forced to Seek Solace in the Arms of Another, Rejected by Her Husband, Who Apparently Is Immune to Feminine Charms, Preferring the Company of Others of His Own Persuasion.
“Yes, this is blackmail, and I’m quite good at it. Your husband returns soon, my lady, and you have no time to dawdle. I will be in touch.”
“You can see he is fairly specific while remaining disturbingly vague. Mari has no idea how to produce five pounds without applying to her husband, let alone five hundred, but she’s fairly certain whatever this man is threatening will greatly upset Oliver.”
“Upset him? Miss Foster, you have no idea, thankfully. Son of a— When did this arrive?”
“A few days ago. Why? Oh, no, he has not contacted my sister again. Should we be looking for a discreet jeweler to buy some of Mari’s necklaces, or are you thinking this is an empty threat?”
“I don’t think the countess can assume it’s an empty threat, no. May I keep this? And do you have his other notes?”
Did he seem more interested now? Yes, he did. Perhaps it was the hero in him stepping to the fore. Or concerns for Oliver. It certainly couldn’t be anything else, could it?
Dany retrieved those from behind the cushions, cloyingly tied up with a pink ribbon, because Mari didn’t learn quickly, if she learned at all. She still probably harbored at least a slight hope that the blackmailer was only trying to attempt to get her to write to him again. Which she would only do over Dany’s dead body, and so she had informed the countess. Folding up notes and placing them in...
“Oh, you might want to know how they corresponded,” she said as the baron pocketed the notes. “The first was delivered by a maid who was handed the note and a copper piece on the street, with instructions for its delivery. I’ve questioned her, naturally. The man didn’t hand off the note himself, but used a young lad who then disappeared. The rest were exchanged by tucking the notes in a knothole in the third tree from the right behind the mansion. My bedchamber windows overlook the mews, and I’ve done my best for the past several nights to remain awake and watching, but am ashamed to admit I make a poor sentry. I’ve never lasted much beyond midnight before falling asleep at my post.”
He was looking at her oddly now, very nearly measuring her. What on earth was he thinking?
“No, I can’t do that. Even Darby isn’t that foolhardy.”
“Pardon me?”
“Nothing, Miss Foster. Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”
“Only my thoughts on how to catch out the rotter so you can teach him a firm lesson. You will do that, correct, or what is the use of finally knowing who he is? So here’s the thing, my lord. He has to communicate with my sister again, correct? Threaten her with dire consequences and upset her again, then tell her where to place the money and all of that nonsense so that he can swoop down, masked and caped, and disappear with his ill-gotten lucre.”
“Read your share of penny dreadfuls, have you?”
“The blame isn’t on my head if Mama often forgets to lock them up in her desk. But I’m right, aren’t I? He wrote that he would be in touch. I doubt he’ll wait too long, don’t you? Why, he might even return tonight, to place another message in the tree. Which means you have to be in my bedchamber before midnight. It’s the best vantage point. I know that, because I’ve tried them all. There aren’t enough shrubs to constitute a concealed hidey-hole, the windows in the kitchens are barely aboveground and I could only look from my sister’s windows if I involved her, which I won’t. She would send me straight home if she knew I was making myself personally involved in her misadventure. I’d raise too much attention if I availed myself of the view from the servants’ quarters in the attics. Oh, and before you ask, the windows in Oliver’s study are stained glass, and impossible to see through.”
“You’ve put a good measure of thought into this, haven’t you?”
“I have. Which leaves your only good vantage point the windows in my bedchamber.” She smiled at him, knowing he was becoming more frustrated by the moment. “It’s a narrow house, my lord, for all its grandeur.”
“I